


Are You Gonna

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Feminization, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I could," Jonny says on a lilt, voice leaning towards Patrick just like his body is."Could what?"Teeth scrape against Jonny’s  bottom lip and release. Brown eyes look up at him from long lashes andjesushave Jonny’s lashes always been that long?"Be your girl," Jonny murmurs.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, Patrick Kane/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 86
Collections: Anonymous





	Are You Gonna

**Author's Note:**

> filling the prompt: _Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews, Jonny just wants to be Patrick's girl_ [on the kink meme](https://gethawksdeep.tumblr.com/post/644223435344674816/patrick-kanejonathan-toews-jonny-just-wants-to)
> 
> Any and all comments would be loved and appreciated! 🥰❤️

He was drunk the first time he did it. Staggered back to their room at half-past too-late-much-too-late and started rambling before Jonny could kill him with the force of the rage waving off his half-naked body. Jaw clenched as tight as the rigid flex of his bicep anchoring his arm to the door and then Patrick says, “Best pussy I’ve ever had, man.” Heaves it out, chest going _up-down-up_ in shock and shaking head _side-to-side_ following suit. “Can’t believe it. Can’t believe it.” Has to press the heel of his palm to his dick to make sure it’s still intact between his legs. 

This wasn’t some callous fuckery of the usual sort- _nah-man._ It was next-level out-of-his-hands. Not even God himself would have the willpower to pull out of that soft-wet-tight heat just to make it back for _curfew._ Not even Jonny. 

Patrick’s ready-set-go to defend the point til his face goes blue, will throw a fucking funeral for _himself_ on this goddamn hill, but when he looks up, Jonny’s face is kind of—frozen. Not rage so hot it turned cold—Patrick knows that one. No, it’s—funny-frozen. Patrick’s never seen that one before. 

Therefore, he naturally assumes it must be a result of learning about the existence of miracle pussy, which makes Patrick the fucking prophet bringing the good news. He grins graciously. “I know man,” he says on a giddy squeeze of Jonny’s shoulders like he’s excited for Jonny too. “Primo shit, Grade-A, first-fuckin’-star, man,” he says, finishing it on language that Jonny’ll understand, and it startles a little jolt through him. Clears his throat and backs him out of the doorway all the way back to his bed and clearing the path for the prophet, _aw yeah._

Still, Patrick isn’t expecting it when Jonny says, “What made it so good.” A flat throwaway paired with an absent stare down at his nails that projects _couldn’t-care-less_ but really, he’s thrown down the gauntlet. Patrick loves to talk about getting his dick wet—it’s almost as good as getting his dick wet itself. Doesn’t do it with Jonny, though—didn’t think he’d be the type. 

But—

Jonny’s thrown down the _fuckin_ ' gauntlet. 

Sitting there with his bland face and bland voice and leaning back like he physically couldn’t care less and it’s fuckin’ disrespectful, alright? Not to Patrick, but to the—

“Best pussy I ever had,” Patrick says back, soft now. Waits for Jonny to meet his gaze before he licks over his lips quick and settles in to prove it.

* * *

It’s a thing they do, after that. 

* * *

Jonny never asks again, never initiates. Never reciprocates. But he always listens. Reacts with no more than little quirks of the lips and hummed out “yeah?”s but—

Always listening. 

And Patrick loves being listened to, so he keeps talking. 

“She had a tight little body, little everywhere man. Little hips, little waist, little tits, and then she opened her legs and it was like, _boom!”_ Wooshes the sound out and emphasizes it with his fingers. “Full on fupa. Could feel it ‘round my cheeks when I had my tongue in her.” Lets out a long, deep chuckle ‘cause it’s fucking wild and isn’t that wild Jonny? Stares at Jonny with raised brows and cheeks clenched in laughter and waits for Jonny to say “Wild.” And—

He doesn’t look like he’s laughing at Patrick, but he doesn’t look like he’s laughing with him either. But there’s a curve to his lips and he’s staring evenly back, so Patrick shrugs and chalks it up as a win. “Right, man?” He grins, rolling back so he’s looking up at the ceiling. Chuckles to himself a bit. Fuckin’ crazy shit. 

“Wild,” he repeats softly. Remembers the plush warmth cushioning his cheeks as he stroked his tongue in and shifts in his bed. Presses a hand to his half-hard dick and wishes he could just take it out and fuck it into the tight tunnel of his fist. He’s had roommates before who didn’t mind, some who even joined in. Patrick glances over, watches Jonny pad to the bathroom and thinks—

It's a pity that Jonny’s not the type. 

* * *

Patrick picks up in a cramped bar in St. Louis off the back-end of a win, and it’s bad. 

Scores the motherfuckin’ game-winning goal, and what does he get? Patrick and the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-lay and _ha_ he’s hilarious—looks to Jonny for confirmation, gets a purse of the lips—and lets out a gusty sigh. “She was hot, man,” he says in a tone no man should ever use when uttering those words. _Real_ hot, bouncy little blonde with big eyes and pouty lips that would look perfect wrapped ‘round his cock. And they _did_ —right up until she started moaning. 

Jonny snorts for real then, shooting Patrick a look with raised brows. “You kidding? Don’t tell me you don’t like it when chicks gag all over your dick,” saying _you_ with special emphasis and tossing in another look of amusement along with it. 

“Not if they don’t mean it.” Patrick’s not into that porno shit. Fake moans and simpering little whines that are meant to please him and him alone. “Like it when they love my dick for real. When they gag on it because they can’t get enough, not ‘cuz they wanna pump my tires.” 

And this girl—she was putting on a performance, trying to make him feel good. Wide eyes and lapping little licks and cunt probably drier than the Sahara. And that’s nice, good intentions and all that. But it made him feel all sleazy, maybe stung at his pride a little because—

“Not usually a problem.” He shrugs at Jonny’s dark eyes and now-even mouth. “Most of ‘em love it.” Jonny eyes flicker down to Patrick’s crotch and lips flicker along with them. Gone too fast for Patrick to tell if it was a frown or a smile or something else altogether. 

“I’ll bet,” Jonny says, dragging his eyes up and away and it’s a chirp but doesn’t sound like one. Patrick takes a second to figure out whether or not he should be offended and decides it’s not worth the effort. 

So he bounces back on the bed, gives his dick an absent comforting pat and “Oh well.” Another sigh. Can’t win ‘em all. Isn’t that what people say? Except it doesn’t make him feel any better, because he doesn’t really believe that. 

“Her loss,” Jonny offers. 

Patrick’s on his back, comfy. Takes him a while to loll his head towards Jonny. S’probably a chirp, but Jonny says it like it’s not. Again. Maybe to make it a super-chirp. Reverse psychology, psychological warfare and shit. But Patrick’s a simple guy, so he just smiles real wide and says, “Thanks, man.” Sincere as hell. Jonny looks at him and—

Smiles back. 

Shit. Huh. Psychological fuckin’ warfare. 

Maybe. 

* * *

Patrick thinks about it sometimes. Not on purpose, because—no. But it slips in at random times, the question of—

DoesitgetJonnyhot.

Probably just being a good buddy, but. 

Patrick’s never seen him getting his rocks off, but. 

  
  


Who knows? 

  
  


One time Patrick’s jacking it in the shower and his brain shoots him a vision of Jonny beating his meat in their room to the story Patrick just told him of the redhead in Anaheim who’d ridden him cross-eyed and he laughs so hard he comes. 

Huh. Now there’s a new one. 

Nah, Jonny’s a good buddy. Bit of a douche sometimes, but a good buddy nonetheless. If he _wanted_ to beat his meat to the shit Patrick tells him, well. Patrick doesn’t blame him. It’s hot stuff. Real hot stuff. So Patrick gets it. He wouldn’t mind, really. 

* * *

There’s a chick in Dallas that has a pussy so goddamn pretty Patrick gets the urge to stop and ask if he can take a picture like he’s a fuckin’ tourist. 

“So smooth, man. Like _smooth-_ smooth. Not just bare, but.” Bites his lips at the memory of it, pettin’ it all over like it was a kitten while the girl giggled up with pink cheeks. “Like—porn-star bare or something. Shit, maybe she _is_ a porn star.” Makes sense. Only thing that _does_ make sense, pussy that silky smooth. Patrick wanted to rub his cheeks on it, get the pink all red with his stubble but—

Girls don’t like that shit, so he tongue-fucked her ‘til she clenched round him and came. And then did it again. And then once more. 

Jonny makes a small noise, a throat clear. He’s staring down at a book. Patrick’s telling him about this gorgeous pink cunt and Jonny’s gasping along to some lame-ass _book._ What happened? Did he get to the section where they said the key to self-actualization was to meditate for fifteen minutes a day and drink a cup of green tea at the ass-crack of dawn or some shit? 

Patrick opens his mouth and realizes he’s kinda miffed. Before he can snark about it Jonny says, “You like it smooth, eh?” Out of the corner of his mouth, quiet-like. Still staring down at his stupid book. 

Patrick sucks his teeth for a second, because what kind of question is that? “Yeah man, course I do.” Settles on a short laugh that he hopes conveys _the fuck, Jonny?_ “Who doesn’t?” Few seconds later, a hum of affirmation and a little tilt of the lips. 

Patrick grits his teeth, weirdly put-out. Fuckin’ party pooper. Jonny isn’t exactly a chatterbox during this shit, but he gives him more than _this._ What the fuck ever. What’s he doing telling Jonny’s ungrateful ass about this gorgeous pussy when he can just bask in it himself? 

Stomps over to the bathroom too loud, slides into the shower. Hand braced against the wall, head dropped low, licks over his lips and thinks of _pink-wet-tight_. 

Nice. 

Damn, he shoulda got her number. He’ll probably never see anything that pretty again his whole life. He gets hard real fast and jacks it real hard too, right before he comes, he sees Jonny’s tight knuckles on his book. The small part of his mouth when he slid out _“You like it smooth, eh?”_

Patrick’s breath comes out fast. He watches his jizz circle down the drain and thinks _fuckin’ moron._ Who doesn’t like it smooth?

* * *

In Nashville, he walks back in their room with a dopey smile on his face. He probably looks like a fuckin' dweeb, but _shit._ That's one hell of an afterglow. Hopes Jonny doesn't try to harsh it—he's back before curfew. By the skin of his teeth, but still. 

Jonny doesn’t start bitching on sight, which is good. Mouth's parted like he was thinking about it, but he just stares at—

"Shit, ha." A chuckle. " _Whoops."_ His shirt's unbuttoned. Not just one or two, but damn near down to his belly. 

"Pussy so good you forgot how to dress yourself?" Patrick jerks at it. Squints to make sure, and—yeah, Jonny just said that. Swallows dry. 

Shit, dude needs to work on his chirps, ‘cuz his delivery is way off. Too low and quiet and flat-mouthed dark-eyed and barely salvaged by the lip tilt at the very end of it. 

Patrick shakes his head like a wet dog. "Something like that." A lazy smile and Jonny's still looking, so Patrick tells him how he likes to talk in bed. Likes it a _lot._ And so did his gal tonight. 

Brunette named Mandi, took it so goddamn sweet. Blushing and gasping with every word out of Patrick's mouth, looking like she had cartoon birds flying over her head by the end of it.

Jonny listens with the cock of a head and smile playing at his lips. "Hmm and what do you say to them, Kaner?" Voice all teasing, eyes glinting like an asshole. "Gonna fuck them so good with your ‘big fat cock’?" And Jonny really is smirking now. 

But Patrick's still riding the glow, man. Just smiles back slow with the memory of it playing behind his lids and shakes his head. "Like telling them how good they are. How good they smell, how soft their skin is. How good they are at taking my dick, sweetheart," and softens the word like he really is talking to his girl. 

Jonny doesn't say much after that. 

Patrick thinks about telling him the wicked thing Mandi did with his balls, but decides against it last second. Just isn't that kinda night, he guesses. 

No harm, no foul. 

* * *

As the season goes on, Patrick stays hot on the ice and goes cold between the sheets. Peers down in the shower and swears to god he can actually _see_ his balls turning blue. 

He wants to wet his wick almost as bad as he wants the Cup. But he wants the Cup just a little bit more, which is the whole fucking problem. 

The playoff race is tight, games are a fuckin’ circus. Even when there's time to go out and pick up, he's too goddamn tired. 

"God, I wish I had some pussy right now," he tells Jonny in Philly, forearm laying across his eyes. Jonny’s hands pause where they're working out the kinks in his back—last game was _brutal_ on it. 

Patrick shifts so his back presses into Jonny’s hand and Jonny starts back up. Patrick hears a simple "sorry" and he sighs. "Fuckin' sucks. But what are you apologizing for?" 

Takes his arm off his face and turns around so Jonny’s hands slip off. Shoots Jonny a warm smile. "Not your fault. Hell, I should be thanking you. Kept us alive tonight." 

Jonny just shrugs, and Patrick can just hear it, _team effort, everyone did their job out there, lots of guys stepped up_ and reaches up, squeezes Jonny’s elbow. "You're so good, Jonny," he says softly, forgetting to add a "for us out there" but this feels better anyway, feels right. And Jonny—

Jonny shudders, shoulders slumping like he was being held up by a string and someone just cut it. "Turn around, Kaner," he says roughly, and Patrick's so surprised that he does it automatically and without question and then—

" _Fuck yeah_ ," he groans out, 'cuz Jonny’s started using his elbows, the kind of good dig that takes real effort, exertion. Patrick sighs into it, murmuring appreciatively. 

Jonny really is a good buddy. 

* * *

Few weeks later he’s cursing the tragedy that is his life. Moping in their room like an angsty goddamn teenager because Patrick was _awesome_ tonight—four fucking points, suck on that Kesler—and he went out to celebrate it, exhaustion be damned. 

But it was a Tuesday night, slow as shit crowd. Threw around a few half-hearted glances. Got jack _shit_. Then one of the rookies threw up all-over the table and _jeez,_ kid—had his first multi-point game, and Patrick gets it, he really does. Is in absolutely _no_ position to be lecturing—God knows it—so he slaps a few hundreds into the owner’s hand on an apologetic handshake and _aw-shucks_ smile and figures it does the trick well enough. 

They take the kid back to the hotel and Patrick slaps him on the back all “ _buck-up, kid!_ ” when the mortified psycho-babble starts up. All light chirps and good humor like he’s supposed to, being a vet—the fuckin’ horror—and the kid gives him this sheepish-sweet smile before he stumbles into his room. 

The moment Patrick walks through his own door though, bet’s off. “ _Fuck_ ,” he snarls, plopping down hard on his bed. Makes a fist and squeezes it up tight against his stomach, cock practically aching with the need to stick itself in something nice and tight that isn’t his own goddamn hand. 

“Couldn’t score, hotshot?”

Patrick looks up blearily, and _fuck Jonny_ he’s really not in the fucking mood tonight, okay? “Screw you,” he spits out. Rubs his hands all rough against his eyes and _fuck._ “Don’t know how you fuckin’ do it.” Pointed. 

Can’t remember the last time Jonny picked up, fuckin’ monk. Looks peachy as shit anyway, all loose and easy in his bed and scanning over plays, pencil in goddamn hand. Like he doesn’t have a fucking dick at all, the fuck. 

Jonny looks over. “We’re not all as high-maintenance as you.” Patrick would give it right back to him 'cept he sounds kinda. Fond. Whatever. 

Feels his cheeks heat, Christ. Has to duck his head on a " _shut up_." Whistles out through his teeth, a soft "shit, man." 

Comes back up to find Jonny looking at him, and he sighs. "I was good tonight, thought that maybe—" Cuts off quick and bites his lip. Waits for Jonny to roast his ass. _What, you think you deserve a special treat for doing your goddamn job?_

Waits for it. 

Jonny's quiet, though. Sits there watching him for a good few seconds and then gets up from his bed. Starts his way over to where Patrick's sitting on his, and whoa whoa whoa what's this? He gonna get bitched-out up close? He can't handle that shit right now, not unless Jonny’s looking to get bitch- _slapped_ himself. Opens his mouth to tell him straight up, but the words die right then and there. 

Jonny’s right in front of him, real close. Almost standing between his legs, looking down directly into his eyes and he doesn’t look all, well. _Captain Seriously Disappointed_ or whatever _._ He looks—

Sympathetic, almost. 

“You’re right,” he says all low and serious. “You were good tonight. Really good.” And that’s nice, Tazer, thanks. Be a lot nicer if the dude could back up a few fucking feet, because now he really is standing in between Patrick’s legs. Jonny’s a touchy dude, likes to get his paws all over the place, but. 

This feels different.

Jonny’s still looking at him all dark and intense and shit, and he reaches out to touch Patrick's bicep in an imitation of a gesture of encouragement 'cept he does it with the tips of his fingers, light. Real light and it’s—Patrick lets out this _sound_ because he thinks it’s—it feels like it’s—

It’s _different._

Goes red-hot with embarrassment because _what the fuck_ but it just makes Jonny smile, which has no business being fucking terrifying, but it is, god it is. Jonny trails his fingers down an inch, _intentional._ Still light. LightLightLight and what the fuck is he playing at, Patrick opens his mouth to ask _what the fuck are you playing at_ but before he can—

Jonny’s sinking down, one fell swoop. 

Between his _legs_. 

And he’s—on his fucking knees in front of Patrick. 

His eyes are still dark as hell and Patrick can’t help but hysterically think about all the times Jonny’s bitched about how he wishes Patrick had a mute button, that if he could have any superpower in the world, it would be to shut Patrick the fuck up on demand. 

Well wish fucking granted, because Patrick couldn’t speak right now if you paid him to. And then lightlightlight fingers are nudging his legs apart and Jonny’s looking up at him in a way that makes Kaner choke out a “Jonny, what are you—” 

Thumb and pointer finger, pinching the zipper on his fly. Once, hard. Releasing and flicking it up with a nail. Dark eyes looking up and then flicking down and lingering between his legs and then Jonny’s tongue coming out to lick at his lips and _Jesus_ —

Jonny’s on his fucking knees _for_ Patrick. 

But—Jonny’s _straight._

Isn’t he? _Isn’t he?_

Jonny’s straight, and more importantly—“I’m straight, man!” Blurts it out, chest going _up-down-up_ in shock and shaking head _side-to-side_ following suit. He can’t believe it. Can’t believe it. Has to press the heel of his dick to make sure it’s still intact between his legs and _oh boy_ is it intact. 

Jonny knows it too, bites his lips on a smile and Patrick has to say, “A-And you’re not a girl.” Voice cracking, and he doesn’t know if he’s saying it to Jonny or saying it to himself and Jonny just smiles _more_. 

A few seconds pass, maybe, but fuck if Patrick can keep track of something as goddamn insignificant as time right now and why is he entertaining Jonny Looney Tunes Toews right now anyway, huh? Patrick should shove him back. One quick push at the center of his chest. It’d be easy. Then he’d bitch at Jonny for coming up with the absolute _worst_ fucking idea of a prank in the entire goddamn world, Patrick’ll give him half his salary for Jonny to buy a real goddamn sense of _humor,_ but. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t. 

And then—"I could," Jonny says on a lilt, voice leaning towards Patrick just like his body is. Still looking goddamn fucking peachy, easy. Content. Unbothered, like he gets on his knees on the regular. And shit, that’s not—that’s not an image Patrick needs in his head right now. 

"Could what?" Squeezes right out of him and makes him sound like a goddamn asthmatic trying to give an interview after a marathon ‘cuz what the fuck what the fuck what the _fuck._

Teeth scrape against Jonny’s bottom lip and release. Brown eyes look up at him from long lashes and _jesus_ have Jonny’s lashes always been that long? 

"Be your girl," Jonny murmurs, lashes fluttering a blink that Patrick's only seen when a girl's got her lips wrapped around his cock and wants him to watch. Fingers ghosting along Patrick’s inseam _light light light,_ and Patrick goes white-hot-dumb-mouth-gape-open- _hot-hot-hot-fuck-hot._

Jonny’s flirting his mouth open as he says it, a tease of a thing. Like he's trying to show Patrick it's easy access, _j_ _esus._

Easy, easy. Making it so easy.

Patrick likes things easy. He's not one to over-complicate, to try past the point of any real gain—because then even if you win, you lose. 

And Patrick likes to win, and only to win. 

Shifts in his seat, jeans tight across his dick. Sees Jonny’s eyes flicker down and thinks maybe just maybe—he's being handed a win on a silver platter.

And what's easier than that?

But Jonny’s not a girl. 

He’s not—he’s not. 

But he’s in front of Patrick, between his legs. 

On his knees. And Patrick’s never thought about it before, but—

He’s never seen it all together like this. Does-eyes, soft skin, pink tongue all laid out wide for a cock to use. _Shit,_ a flash of heat so hard he has to press a fist to his stomach again. 

It’s—

Pretty. 

Fuckin’ hell. _He’s_ pretty. 

As pretty as—

Yeah, Patrick can see it now. 

Pretty and pink tongue laid out easy, easy. So easy Patrick has to bite out a rough, “Slut.” 

And Jonny cracks. 

Goes all pink-hot-shudder head-down palm-to-dick and raises back up, doe-eyes dark and lips wet- _wet._ “Only for you,” he says, sweet as sin, and Patrick groans, _groans._

“Christ,” he says weakly. Jonny always makes his life so fucking difficult, what the fuck. So difficult with his easy, easy pink tongue out. Pink tongue curling in back into his mouth and shit _no wait no_ and Jonny smiles like he can see the whole goddamn production play out on Patrick’s face. Eases something out from the band of his briefs that was pressed tight against his skin. 

It’s—What’s—

A soft _pop_. Little wand coming out of a little tube, swiping across and smearing on his lips and Patrick’s hit with the scent of sweet fake peach and Jonny’s lips are all fucking glossed up and parted like—

_… Brooke. Popped out this little tube of clear gloss, peach-flavored or something. Put it on right before she sucked my dick and shit man, never went hard so fuckin' fast._

Oh fuck. _Fuck._

Jonny listens to him. 

Jonny _listens_ to him, really listens, because—

How long's he had that little tube tucked into his fucking underwear? How many days? How many nights? Waiting for—

Brings his lips so close Patrick can feel his breath hot all over his dick straight through the denim. Jonny blinks, heavy-lidded. "I can be so good for you," murmured out with glossy, wet lips. Pink tongue out, easy. Jonny's brown eyes. Doe-eyes, long lashes and—

Shit. _Shit._

Okay then. 

Patrick takes a breath.

Okay then.

Shaking finger reaches out to tap-tap at the seam of Jonny’s sticky-wet lips, runs the pad back and forth and Jonny’s mouth falls open, good. 

_So_ good. 

Just like promised. 

Patrick rubs on his pink tongue, catalogs the flutter of Jonny’s lashes and this is insane. This is insane and Jonny’s not a—but he’s just—so fucking pretty that Patrick can’t help himself from saying,“Show me, baby.” Slides it out smooth and low and Jonny shudders and Patrick’s fucked, so absolutely fucked. 

Jonny shoots him this look from under his lashes, real coy and Patrick is _fucked._

His pink tongue wriggles out and kitten-licks right up the line of Patrick’s zipper and tugs it down with his teeth and then his fingers are wrapping around Patrick’s cock, except—

He doesn’t use the full grip, so his hand barely wraps around half of Patrick’s dick. 

Like a—

Jonny blinks up at him one last time, dips his tongue into Patrick’s slit and smirks, and before Patrick knows it, Jonny has his wet-pink- _slut_ lips all wrapped around the head of Patrick’s dick, lappin’ at it like a porn star but _not_ a porn star ‘cuz he’s—

Going pink-pink cross the bridge of his nose, hurt little moans filtering out, _real_ hurt, like he can’t believe how much he likes this, eyes-wide and gasping as he pulls off with a slick _pop_ and then going lazy-easy-heavy-shut as he takes Patrick deep, sinks into the feel of cock in his mouth, cock deep in his throat, stuffin’ him full and—Patrick’s never been so fucking hard in his entire life, can’t help the litany of _shit-shit-shits’s_ leaving his mouth because “You look so fuckin’ pretty, babe,” Patrick has to say, biting his lips hard as Jonny noses down to lap greedily at his balls. 

God, he doesn't know what the fuck just came out of his mouth or where it came from but he doesn't _care_ because Jonny fucking _mewls._ Has to take a second to catch his breath and rest his cheeks right up against Patrick’s sac before he pulls back up to try and take as much of Patrick down his throat as he can, like he wants to show Patrick just how pretty he can be. 

He’s going pink-to-red, little tears beading at the corner of his mouth and Patrick finds himself asking “You ever suck a cock before sweetheart?” Gentle as he can, feeling scraped raw when Jonny looks up with his big brown eyes and wet lips stretched wide around his cock and shakes his head a little, and Patrick can’t help it, has to press his fingers up against Jonny’s cheek and shit he can _feel_ himself in Jonny’s mouth. 

In _Jonny’s_ mouth. 

Groans a full-body shudder. “Jesus, you’re a natural, babe. A real pro,” he roughs out because it’s _true,_ Christ, because he’s never had someone take his cock like this, like every second they have to pull off to breathe is a second wasted—sees Jonny scrunch his brow as he does it, irritation tugging down at his lips the way it does when he’s on the bench and sees someone fumble a scoring opportunity and that _hits_ Patrick, hits him in a way that has his hands shooting out into Jonny’s hair and pulling him back onto Patrick’s cock on a choke and Patrick pets-pets and murmurs out a soothing “Shh, babe, you’re okay. Wouldn’t give it to a girl like this her first time, but.” Bites his lips, catalogs the way Jonny’s trying to bury his face in Patrick’s pubes even as he’s sputtering-red and _cough-coughing._ “You’re so talented,” he says, warm, and Jonny whimpers, pushes his head up into Patrick’s hand until Patrick looks him dead in the eye. Jonny doesn’t break eye contact as he bobs up-and-down, tearing up when Patrick starts fucking his hips in a little ‘cuz _wet-tight-hot_ come on, he’s not fucking Superman. 

But Jonny keeps going, real wet now at the corners of his eyes, red in his cheeks, going, going, going until he pulls off and gasps out a “Am I being a good girl for you, Kaner?”For you _Kaner_ fuck-fuck-holy- _shit_ voice all cock-hoarse and so goddamn earnest that Patrick blows his load all over Jonny’s face right then and there, _for you_ _Kaner?_ echoing through his head on a loop. 

Watches Jonny’s eyes go wide as come catches him in his open-mouth, over his lips, on his chin, in the hollows under his eyes, in his fucking _hair_ and jeez, Patrick doesn’t remember the last time he’s nutted that hard and that _much_ and shit, whoops. 

Well he’s not _fucking_ Superman. Watches Jonny blink his come-clumped lashes and goes fuckin’ dizzy and yeah, would’ve happened to fuckin’ anyone—even _fuckin’_ Superman. 

And then Jonny rises up all shaky and stumbles off to the bathroom before Patrick can blink—doesn’t say a goddamn thing and _shit,_ it was too much. Fuckin’—fucking hell, talk about whiplash. His balls are still fucking aching from how goddamn hard he just shot, he’s breathing so hard he feels like he just got bag skated, and there’s this good kinda heavy in his limbs. Nice little post-nut hazed-out-laze. 

Which is all _fucked_ because oh boy is the _creep_ factor setting in, and holy hell he's actually gonna have to march his ass into that bathroom and say some shit like "sorry I jizzed all over your face, bro,"—even though it's really all Jonny’s fucking fault, Patrick cannot _believe_ he's the slime ball here, shit. 

_Jonny’s_ the one who—got on his knees like a wh—

Sucked his dick out through his brains with peach gloss all over his lips and _fuck,_ his goddamn dick is twitching. Traitor. Whip. Fuckin'. Lash. Fucking. Jonny. Looney Tunes. Toews. 

He scrubs a hand across his face and squares his shoulders. Time to face the fuckin' music. Nut up so to speak. Braves a look through the open bathroom door and—

Jonny's—

"Holy shit," Patrick whispers, strangled out because—Jonny’s not washing Patrick's load off his face. He's _panting,_ staring at his come-streaked face in the mirror and jacking it hard. 

Christ. _Christ._

Whiplash. _Whiplash._

Suddenly the desire to march up to the bathroom and get up behind Jonny and just _bend him over_ just—wait, what? No. No. He doesn’t—But. He does get up. 

Eyes snag on that little tube of gloss Jonny pulled out, tossed on the floor. Bends down and picks it up for some reason, tosses it one-hand-to-the-other all the way to the bathroom, still messin’ around with it when he’s leaning against the sink next to Jonny, watchin’ him _pant-pant-shudder_ extra hard and squeeze his balls real tight when he registers Patrick’s presence. 

Jonny ducks his head down, going even more rosy in his neck, but he keeps jacking it, whimpering like he just can’t keep it in. Patrick swallows dry. Hands shoots out to tangle in Jonny’s hair, yanks it back gentle-firm and Jonny yelps. Watches Jonny watch him, untangles his fingers from Jonny’s hair and hopes he gets the silent command to stay put. 

Jonny doesn’t move an inch, and Patrick slips out a “good girl” murmured-soft. His hands are moving, shaking, uncapping the little tube and—he brings the wand to Jonny’s lips, and they part on command. Jonny’s breath warm and hot against his fingers as he smears the gloss all over Jonny’s lips, hands unsteadier than they’ve been in his entire life. “Gorgeous,” Patrick whispers uneven. Gorgeous, gorgeous. 

Drops the tube and it clatters somewhere, doesn’t matter. All that matters is—Jonny lips all wet with gloss, tearing his eyes away from Patrick like it hurts to look at him and snapping his gaze back towards the mirror. Watching his face, covered in Patrick’s nut. Hand speeding up on his dick and hips twitching forward. 

Patrick’s always had control over his body. Staggering control, staggering precision. Dangles, dekes, soft hands, looking easy as pie, _smooth_ but it’s not. It’s precision. It’s control. And right now, he has none. Feels like a goddamn puppet being controlled by his hindbrain, fingers shakily swiping off his jizz from Jonny’s chin and staring. Feeling. Tacky, wet, thick. 

Coaxing them towards Jonny’s mouth, nudging at the plush seam of his lips, begging for entrance. “Come on, babe,” he says soft. Jonny’s eyes, dark and intense as he sucks them into his mouth, still jacking his dick. Patrick swiping, begging. Jonny accepting greedily, sucking. Sticky-gloss getting Patrick’s fingers all messy. “That’s nice, doll. Real nice.” A whisper. Jonny sucks harder, jacks it faster. “Taste good?” He wants it to. Wants Jonny to like it, and Jonny squeezes his eyes shut tight. Nods desperately hard. Patrick smiles harder. “That’s so good, baby. I’m real glad.” Thumbs at the small of Jonny’s back in reward, and Jonny leans into the touch in a way that makes Patrick warm. 

Keeps it up, feeding Jonny his nut little tongue-swipes at a time until Jonny’s so worked up he looks like he might burst straight out of his skin, hips fucking his cock into his fist, sliding red-hot-wet-angry and moans tearing out of his chest. “You need some help, baby?” Jonny sobs out, and Patrick has to cup at the back of his neck. “Hey, shh. You’ve been so good.” Rubs there, feels Jonny clench, unclench. “Made me feel so good. Let me help you sweetheart.” 

He wants to— _needs_ to in a way he can hardly understand, and when Jonny nods, he feels everything in him light up hard and he captures Jonny’s furiously moving hand and stills it. Clamps down with pressure when it flexes in his wrist. Takes his thumb, circles it over the head of Jonny’s dick and murmurs, “Pretty little clit,” and Jonny gasps, shooting hard, jizz getting on the counter, the mirror, the floor, Patrick’s hand. 

Patrick’s hand. 

Stares down at it, hot-white-thick-wet splattered on him while Jonny’s harsh breaths echo in his ear. 

Jonny’s come, on his hand. 

He feels it coming—post-nut clarity, slappin’ him clean across the face and knocking him on his ass. Where you realize, yeah, you really did just rub one out to some animated-orange-red-tentacle-porn-shit and _oops._ It’s kind of a delayed reaction, like his post-nut-clarity’s a fuckin’ gentleman or something, waiting for Jonny to get his before barging into Patrick’s brain and making itself at home because all of a sudden Jonny’s jizz is on his hand and hey! Wow! _Jonny’s jizz is on his hand._

Which, thanks brain, is about the least of his worries right now, and holy shit what the fuck is he supposed to say now? 

Thanks for the blowie? Sorry for losing the cap to your lip gloss? 

The _lip gloss,_ Christ. Motherfuckin’ bane of his existence. That’s what did him in, must’ve been. Dumbass dick thought they were right back in Arizona with that Brooke chick, failed to take into account that the lips wrapped around his dick belonged to his fucking _Captain._ Who's a _dude._ With a _dick._ What a goddamn—

“Here.” 

Patrick blinks. His hand is no longer covered in jizz. Well, no, it _is,_ but now there’s a wet rag laying on top of it. He blinks again. 

“I’m gonna clean up in here.” Slides his eyes up, sees Jonny spine straight, voice lax, peachy as _shit,_ grabbing a few tissues and dabbing at the counter like he’s scrubbing off toothpaste scum and not his _come._

Blinks again. Swallows down all the feelings of _what-the-fuckery._ “Cool,” Patrick nods, real casual. ‘Cuz _fuck Jonny_ if he thinks he’s gonna out-chill Patrick on this one, Patrick can be chill. Can be real chill. So chill that he thinks about offering to help clean up for about .5 seconds before hysterical laughter bubbles up in his throats and he hauls ass getting out of the fuckin’ bathroom. 

There are limits, after all. 

Which is something his stupid fucking’ dick-to-brain pipeline _completely forgot to take into account._ He feels fucking betrayed—the same way he did when he bust his nut to that cursed tentacle porn except a _million_ times worse, and he’s having a stern talking to with his junk when Jonny comes out of the bathroom, toweling his wet hair and another towel slung low on his hips. Leaves a simple “Bathroom’s yours,” in the air on his way to his own bed like it’s any other goddamn night, and how the _fuck_ does he do it?

Patrick clenches his jaw tight and he cannot _believe_ Jonathan Toews gave him head _and_ is giving him a headache all in the span of one fucking night. 

Upon further review, no, yeah, he definitely can. 

He holds his head high on his way to the bathroom, holds it high on his way to the shower before deciding that what happens in there is between him and God so he proceeds to thunk his head on the tiles a few times and glare down at his dick. 

Gets out, head held high. Goes through the motions of his nighttime routine and somehow gets his ass under his covers without saying anything spectacularly stupid. Hears Jonny toss out a casual “lights out?” and nods weakly in response. 

Soft click, and the room goes black. 

“Night, Kaner.” Casual. Easy. Unbothered. _Peachy._

“Night,” he says back, trying for casual, easy, unbothered, peachy and probably missing by a mile because he can’t hold it back any further, lets the image of Jonny on his knees with gloss-wet lips rise up behind his lids, hears himself saying _pretty little clit_ and thinks—

What. The. _Fuck._

Well, no one can say Jonny isn’t a good buddy. 


End file.
